The Twelfth Doctor
by the-other-b-is-for-bastard
Summary: What happens when the Doctor regenerates into a socially insecure female? The story will handle multiple issues with which the Doctor will struggle, for example: "How to tell one's wife that you are no more the man she married?" Basically just my own headcanon
1. Chapter 1

**Yes, I am using a masculine pronoun when talking about the Doctor, even though his physical characteristics are feminine, I consider the Doctor still as a very masculine character and after all, he is the resultant of his earlier incarnations, which all happen to be males. (Ofc at least in the beginning that's also his preferred pronoun, let's see if it'll change). And yes - I'm not entirely comfortable publishing my own writings, but I thought it'd be the time for me to begin getting used to it.**

The Doctor sprinted to the TARDIS door, opened the door pulling with both hands. While he was stepping out from the door, he stopped, leaving his right foot half outdoors. He gulped, the sudden and for long gone rush of scare ran down his spine, tensing each muscle, his eyes froze and hands dampened.

He was facing masses of people, if it were a normal day, he would've shouted for River, but the fear got the best of him. He slowly shut the door, still a bit shocked, first the left side, pulling his right leg in simultaneously, then the right side. He leaned to the inside of the door and took a deep breath. He suddenly felt that something was way off, not ever before had he paused for a second while running after River. He had been leaning there for a while and noted that there were some strands of hair in his sight, not sure of whose, his hair was nowadays well contained, he couldn't run around with his wife while looking like a fool. He picked one of the strands in between his thumb and index finger, pulled a little. "OW!" went a female voice he didn't recognise, but it seemed to have come out of his mouth. "Weird" he thought, as he slowly, nervously paced towards his closet. As he faced the mirror, the face before him was unknown. He was not sure if he liked what he saw, but the reflection wasn't right. What he saw, was a short, red-headed female, with straight hair. The green eyes, and the tips of his, or in fact hers, hair sweeping the huge shoulder patches that almost teased the reflections earlobes.

From the lowest drawer, after dusting it, he found a razor. He shaved his whole head. He proceeded by taking all his, now extremely large, clothes off. As his mind began clearing itself, he got surprised of not trembling on the trouser legs that trailed the floor, nor had he trembled on the caps of his now over-sized shoes. As he went through his clothes he found his old leather jacket, he took a deep sniff of it and whispered delicately: "Oh, Rose". There weren't that many fitting clothes among his old clothes. He could've called River, but how could've she understood or even realised it was her husband calling, with a female voice. He was too afraid of any kind of connection to his friends, he wasn't yet alright with being a female, it was all so very new to him. He just picked a blanket, the smallest pair of socks he could find and hid into his very own corner in the TARDIS' library.


	2. Chapter 2

**I've finally finished with writing this chapter. Personally I prefer the first one, but everything in this one was necessary. I can't tell when I'll publish the next one, it'll depend on time and if I'll some day suddenly dive into some kind of an writing-spree. Thank you for all the readers, the number of you has exceeded my expectations. [and for those who know about the Moffat's possible additional Doctor, this storyline follows the canon where Eccleston is Nine and so on]**

[a long time - which would equal to about, what'd you say, 8 - 9 Earth's years - later]

The Doctor had read hundreds of literary works of many different cultural origins before, but never had he taken time to actually get into the stories and ponder the depths, worlds and implications in them and how they reflected the cultures in which their writers had lived. Yes, he had read Agatha Christie and knew Shakespeare's works, but this was completely different, this time he actually let his mind wander off in the stories and the places he could only reach through the written words and his imagination.

He had found himself wandering off in those worlds without following the characters, but discovering the places like he used to when he was on his adventures in different planets, galaxies and moons.

He didn't like following the rules, he never had and he had only now realised how well the books allowed him to bend the rules and actually get past the rules and borders the stories provided. His favorite stories were the ones that didn't follow the usual literary rules. (Astoundingly the literary rules seemed to be very similar between varying cultures.) He had also, at the times, subconsciously picked a pen and just drawn and written what his mind portrayed to happen outside the storyline, he had created new universes beside the books' ones and new worlds to discover. But oh, did he feel great sadness when he awoke to what he had been doing. He did truly miss his companions, there was always someone from his past to whom he would've loved to show what he had done and tell them how much new things he had found in those stories, stuff that was easily left unnoticed. Even if he was very keen on reading stories with very varying origins, he kept far from anything that was related to Gallifrey or the Time War, for he was afraid of the pain they'd cause.

Once, when he was making himself tea, he happened to realise that even the TARDIS' seemingly infinite amount of mugs and cups would come to an end, if one didn't wash them every now and then. He had been drinking a few cups or mugs of tea every now and then, which was mainly due to the fact that he had gotten very fond of tea after having so many human companions. He began pondering how much time had passed, but he couldn't really state any proper assumption. (When drifting in the time vortex time wasn't measurable, so he couldn't anyhow measure how long he had spent wandering within his imagination.)

Yes, he had been drifting in the time vortex, although the TARDIS hadn't always recognised it as a safe place to stay for longer times, it was the emptiest place in existence. There wasn't really anyone besides the Doctor to be ever found there, the Doctor and his TARDIS. When Gallifrey was at it's greatest the Time Vortex had been a scary place to enter, the traffic really had been a hell, but that was all gone now.

He had to begin cleaning up the dishes, which he hadn't done during his latest regenerations. He was running between the kitchen and the library, carrying ten mugs or twelve cups at a time. He had thought that he had only laid on the comfiest couch that he owned, thus there couldn't be anything to clean up. The magnitude of the mess around him proved that actually what seemed like doing nothing, caused greater mess than always hurrying from one place to another. Not only were his books spread around the library with no order what so ever, but he looked like a mess as well. In fact his hair - which had now grown long, so long that it was cuddling his waist - hadn't been combed in weeks and the shine they had had after his regeneration had gotten damped over time.

When he had done the dishes and placed them to the cupboard, showered, cut his hair to such length that their tips were right by his earlobes, and organized all the books back in to their correct places in the library, he sat down for a moment to seriously consider the problem that was his clothing. The collection of clothes he owned was very poor. He picked a blue shirt he had worn during his tenth regeneration, as that was one of the slimmest of the shirts he owned. All the pants were extremely large for him, but he took his ninth regenerations jeans and cut them to be the right length for his new body. He picked braces so that his over-sized jeans would be at least wearable. The only question left anymore was who to call. He knew he needed someone who would actually get him proper clothes, but most of the people he knew were long gone or then wouldn't believe that he was the Doctor.


End file.
